I don't call anyone. I don't ask for help. I just begin pulling on my leg, starting with the sock then the socket, fitting everything in place, my hands fumbling as I try to work quickly on something I'm far from comfortable with yet.
Once it's on, I stand, finding my balance, and stuffing my keys and phone into my back pocket. I leave a note on the counter for my dad, telling him I'm trying a short walk. He'll be pleased. Maybe less so, if he knew how far I was really going. Or maybe that would please him more, to know I'm pushing myself.
I leave through the garage, avoiding the few small steps on our concrete porch. I'm not good at climbing and navigating obstacles yet, but the driveway is clear, as is the garage. My dad makes sure of it.
The slant gives me a little speed, and I work hard to keep the pace up as I make it to the end of our block. The pressure hurts, and I pause at the brick fence on the corner, sitting on the short wall and rubbing my hands down my thighs, working my circulation. The pain is setting in, but I can't stop.
After a few minutes, I stand and begin to walk again, slower this time, but I force myself to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I walk beyond Kyle's street until I find the familiar corner to the Stokes' home, taking one more small break, holding onto the stop-sign pole, before I cover the final distance to Wes's home.
There's an older-looking van out front, a ramp on the side for a chair lift, and the garage is open, some boxes stacked near the opening.
"You want me to put these in too then?" TK says, his back to me as he steps through the door of their home.
"That would be great," I hear his dad from inside.
He turns and jumps, swearing lightly under his breath when he sees me, but shaking it off and reaching for a hug quickly.
"Damn, I'm sorry. You … you snuck up on me," he says.
I hold onto his arms, my fingers wrapping around them, searching for ways they feel like Wes's. They don't, but they're welcome anyhow.
"I'm so sorry. I … I was just trying to walk a little, and I found myself here," I lie. My eyes inspect everything around him while he talks, looking for a sign. Why would Wes be hiding here?
"That's great," he says, glancing down, but moving his eyes up to mine. He's trying not to offend me by looking at my leg.
"It's okay. You can check it out," I say. "Actually … I could use a break for a minute?"
"Oh … yeah. Here, I'll put these in the van later. Come into the house. Dad would love to see you anyhow. Mom's home too," he says.
He sets down the boxes that were in his hands on the small stack by the driveway. I notice a few of them are labeled with things like JERSEYS and BASEBALL CARDS. I think they're some of Wes's things.
I don't ask TK, but instead follow him into the house, moving as quickly as I can to the table and chair, my legs ready to rest as I collapse into it.
"Thanks," I say, stretching my limb out and rubbing the thigh again with my hands.
"Does it hurt?" TK asks. Levi walks up behind him and smacks the back of his head.
"Hey … owwwww! I was just curious," he says. Levi narrows his eyes on his brother.
"It's okay," I say through a soft laugh. "Really. I'd rather people ask questions than try to ignore it. And yeah, right now? It hurts like a bitch."
Both of them look down as I roll up part of my sweatpants, showing where the socket fits to my leg. The skin is red and irritated, which I know I will pay for tomorrow. Hell, I'm paying for it now.
"You're still bad-ass, though," TK says, his eyes on the metal rod that connects to a very simple-looking foot and shoe.
I laugh once. "I'm always going to be more bad-ass than you," I say.
Levi belts out an over-exaggerated laugh and points to his brother, backing out of the kitchen and sliding past his father. This feeling-the interaction-I've missed it more than I thought I had. It soothes.
"Joss," Bruce says my name with the reverence of a long-lost relative. He's next to me quickly, his big arm around my shoulders, pulling me into him for a hug. "So glad you stopped by."
"Thanks," I say, looking up into his face.
The sadness is there, but he clears his throat, pushing it away for long enough so we can have a conversation. We both feel it though-it's the hole from Wes. Only … the ticket. I want to show him. But I also somehow know I can't, or shouldn't.
"I'm sorry we haven't stopped by. We talked to your dad at the school, and meant to come to the house. It's just been a little hectic," he says, running his hand through the thinning strands of hair.
"It's okay; I understand," I say.
Taryn has kept me up-to-date on the major details. I know that the boys kept looking for Wes long after the official search was called off. The media trucks left their block after the first week, moving on to the next disaster or tragedy. Meanwhile, Bruce, Maggie and their boys were trying to find ways to pick up the pieces, to move on.
"Josselyn," Maggie says, filing in behind her husband. Her smile lands on me with the weight of a gentle feather.
"Hi," I say, smiling back. As much as I wanted to tell Bruce about the ticket, I want to tell Maggie more. She needs hope. But I don't know what it means. And as much as she needs hope, she also doesn't need a false promise.
"How's your dad doing?" she asks, her eyes never once dipping below my chin. It's different than when other's try not to look at my prosthetic. I can tell. She's not avoiding my leg because she's uncomfortable with my injury; she's avoiding looking at it because of its connection to her son.
"He's good. He's … he's picking up dinner actually. I should head back. I was just trying to get a good walk in," I say, repeating the same fib from before.
It takes Maggie a few seconds to react, her thoughts lost and her face drifting into the distance. "Oh, well … please. Come see us again soon? Maybe … dinner or something," she says.
She squeezes her husband's arm and heads back down the hallway she came from. Bruce's eyes follow her until she disappears, his gaze remaining on the empty space she just left.
"She's struggling," he says, taking a deep breath. "We all are."
"Me, too," I say, the words slipping out. I pull my lips tight and look down at my hands; in this house, it doesn't feel right to admit to any strife bigger than the one this family is feeling now. They wear the grief like heavy coats, their bodies trudging along and trying to remember how to be normal, but the spirit is dark and blue.
It takes me longer to get to my feet this time, the fatigue setting in and the pain from the long walk there reminding me of the hill I have yet to climb. I follow TK and Levi out through the garage, Bruce a few steps behind me, and the hope that carried me here feels thinner now. I know that ticket-I know it was Wes's and I know he sent it to me. It's not something he would share with anyone else. But maybe somehow, it got hung-up in the postal system, lodged in our box, or delivered to the wrong address first. Maybe the timing of it was nothing more than a fluke.
"So these are it?" A heavy voice bellows just out of sight through the garage door. I step forward a little more quickly to see a large man-maybe five or ten years older than Bruce, but so similar to him-sitting in a wheelchair and bending forward to lift one of the boxes onto his lap.
As he bends back up, his eyes stop, catching a glimpse of my leg, and he freezes.
"Ah glad you're still here. Shawn, I want you to meet someone," Bruce says, stepping around me. My mind filters through fragments of memories and things Wes told me, rummaging through facts, not sure if I remember them correctly, but my instincts telling me …
"Shawn, this is Josselyn. She was one of Wes's friends. Still is. Her dad coached all the boys," Bruce says, stumbling through the introduction, careful to make sure it's acknowledged that I'm still very much a part of their family and lives. His words are sweet, but I don't dwell in them long. My ears lock in on the name. Shawn. Shawn. "Joss, Shawn's my brother. He was Wes's first caseworker, at the state."
Yes. I knew it. I knew it the minute I heard the familiar timber of his voice that he was related to Bruce, and my heart told me who he was. This man-this man is Wes's savior, in every possible way. And he was supposed to be dead.
"Shawn, it's nice to meet you," I say, taking small steps forward and reaching for his hand. He takes my palm in his and covers the top with his other hand, his eyes crinkled with the cautious smile that splays out under his glasses.
"Nice to meet you too, Joss," he says, looking at me more directly than anyone has in months.
He keeps my hand in his for a few seconds, his eyes studying me, his smirk faint, but there. It's like a tango, each of us glancing at the other, trying to decide who to trust and what the other knows.